Chapter 1

Let me be perfectly frank about this. Mad evil doctors are made, not born. There is no grand design that separates us from you, our unsuspecting prey. There are no genetic markers. I mean, while I have not spoken to my parents for many years, I, and everyone else who knows them, regard them as good, decent people ... though they ARE both accountants, and I suppose many years of having to work with U.S. tax codes might be enough to tip anyone over the edge. No, they are ... and I was ... quite sane, and an integral part of our society. But for me, something changed. Something shifted. Very early in this story, I’ll tell you what. And when. And why.

Professionally, I have lived two lives. For reasons that will soon become evident, I have made it a point to destroy all records of the first. But, for the sake of scientific advancement, I have endeavored to maintain scrupulous records of the second. For those of you who might notice other of my published “Case Files,” let me explain that I will write them as “stand alone” documents. There is no need to seek out others and read them “in order.” However, for what it is worth, this is the first. In this installment, you will learn about me, as well as my first subject. My first victim.

In my previous life, I was not superstitious. I was rational, reasoning and methodical. There was no place in that life for fear of broken mirrors or black cats or “three on a match.” Coincidence was just that and nothing more. But then came “Patient Number 19.” It was the nineteenth patient in my “first life” that ENDED my “first life.” You see, despite all of my fine ethics and all of my good intentions, I fell in love with Patient 19. Eventually, we became lovers. And then I tried to save her. THAT was my greatest error ... believing that I could shield her from her abusive husband. Her very rich, very powerful abusive husband. And within days, he had crushed me.

His control over HER was absolute, as it turned out. As soon as he learned of our intentions, he took her out of the state. I never did learn where. In fact, from that day on, I had never heard another word ... from her or about her. Within a week, my medical license was revoked, I was fired from my teaching position at a prestigious university, and I was kicked out of my offices (and my apartment) by my landlords. When I learned that there was a warrant out for my arrest for raping a patient under my care, I very wisely conceded defeat and fled the country.

What followed was a protracted exercise in patience. I changed my name in one country, then spent two years getting another undergraduate degree online while living in another. In Scotland, I found a university that would give me advanced credit tests for many graduate classes (let’s face it ... I had TAUGHT some of those subjects, back in “Life Number One”). And in a bit more than five years (which included ANOTHER internship), I was back in the United States, in a city just about as far away from my previous existence as possible, starting a practice exactly as I had before. With the small exception of living a complete lie, I was actually just as dedicated, just as enthusiastic and just as morally upright as I had ever been. But then came the NEXT Patient 19.

It was the middle of my second week in practice, and my only appointment of the day. I honestly hadn’t kept track ... I hadn’t realized he WAS my 19th patient ... not until later, when I looked back at it. He seemed like a nice sort of fellow at first: warm, genuine, hopeful ... perhaps a bit too much so. Let’s face it, people go to psychiatrists because they have problems, not because they’re feeling warm and hopeful. He was young (I later learned he was 27) and large ... tall and tending toward fat, but not quite there yet. He wore a well made, tailored suit, and I assumed he was rich but not pretentious. He studied the degrees hanging on my office walls and smiled a bit too long at them ... but I assumed that was because I was in my mid-30’s, and the degrees were very new, though there was nothing wrong with getting a “late start” in life.

I am of the opinion that the patient should be made to feel important in the doctor-patient relationship (a concept not shared by many in my profession), and so the chair in which he sat before my desk was the same height as my own. Even so, he seemed comfortable in my presence, as if we were equals, though he did not appear to be condescending in the least.

“What brings you to see me today, Mr. Ardly,” I asked, studying him openly, just as he was studying me.

“Please, call me Justin,” he said, smiling. “And how should I refer to you, doctor?”

I gave a small chuckle at his warmth. “I don’t tend to stand on formality. Call me Randy, if you prefer.”

The smile didn’t waiver. “Not ‘James?’ Or “Dr. Waddell?” he asked amiably.

I froze. My old name. I took a deep breath. “Well, shit,” I told him grimly. The pleasant smile never left his lips. “How did Sinman find me so quickly?” I asked him.

Finally, the smile slid off his face, replaced by a look of confusion. He canted his head slightly. “Sinman?” he asked.

“The man who’s paying you,” I said sourly. “I knew he had a long reach, but I felt sure I’d lost him.”

Ardly put the smile back in place. “Ah! The man who drove you out of business in Seattle! I’m assuming that you didn’t actually rape his wife ... not that it really matters to me.”

I sat back hard in my chair, then realized that I couldn’t remember having leaned forward, and I attempted to take stock. I found myself surprisingly clear-headed and alert, yet I couldn’t seem to tell who or what I was facing. I tried to give him various personas, and then sought to judge my actions accordingly. Was he a cobra, ready to strike? A wolf, playing with a cornered rabbit, knowing that he could make the kill when he had had his fun? The Devil, ready to offer me a deal in exchange for my soul? But, in each case, I saw no method of escape.

I sighed heavily and asked: “If ... If Sinman didn’t put you up to this, then why... ?”

“Oh, I imagine that he COULD find you, if he really wanted to. I did, after all.” That pleasant smile never left his lips. “And I’ve known your whereabouts ... and your obvious intentions ... for more than a year now. It was a relatively easy thing for me to guide you to Providence. I graduated from Brown, and a nice contribution to Alpert Medical gained me the power I needed. Did you really think that they just sought you out in Great Britain with the offer for the teaching spot? I mean ... seriously ... what were the chances?”

I took a deep breath. My hands were shaking, and I put them in my lap, out of his line of sight. “You ... want something from me.”

“Oh, yes.”

I shook my head, trying to understand. “But ... I quite literally have nothing to give,” I argued softly. I only kept from screaming that because I was desperately trying to determine if there was anything I DID have to give him. I came up blank.

The infuriating smile broadened. “Six years ago, you wrote your thesis at the University of Washington School of Medicine. It caused a great furor at the time, I understand. Some of the deans wanted it rejected due to the subject matter. I don’t believe you got a very complimentary grade on it.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and he used his hands for emphasis. “But doctor, it was absolute genius!” He let that sink in for a moment. “And now, you’re teaching it here.”

I goggled at him. “The course I’m teaching is Applied Behavioral Science in Psychiatry!” I erupted. “The paper was on Behavior Modification! There’s a huge difference! And the deans in Seattle were quite right to question my choice in topics! The ethical implications involved were borderline at best!”

He leaned back and resumed that hateful smile. “I have absolutely no interest in ethics at all. My needs are quite narrow in scope; and after studying this problem for years, I have determined that YOU are my best hope for a solution. If your goal in life is to ease the suffering of those around you, then this...” he used his hands to indicate the office around us, “ ... is the best way for you to do that. However, if your true identity were known, I fear your practice ... and perhaps your freedom ... would be very much in jeopardy. On the other hand, if you produce the thing I want, you will be handsomely rewarded. Shall we say ... three million dollars?”

“Three... ?” and I froze, dazed and shocked. He kept quiet and let me think (damn him!). I studied his eyes carefully. “What is it you want?”

“I want to procreate,” he said simply. I refused to give him the satisfaction of a response, so he went on. “I want a woman. And I want YOU to find her and give her the traits that I desire. I have read every book about behavior modification that I can lay my hands on; and only YOUR approach seems viable for this purpose. I fully understand the shortcomings of all the various techniques; and I understand that no system or procedure is guaranteed foolproof or permanent. But for the type of woman I want, I am firmly convinced that the process you worked with when developing your thesis WILL produce the effects I’m seeking. You, doctor, will provide me with the perfect wife.”

I shook my head emphatically. “I’d rather start over again ... again! Have I truly given you the impression that I’m the type of man who would accept a laundry list of emotional traits from a client and then ... what? Go out and kidnap some woman? And then ... brainwash her to ... to...”

He laughed out loud, and I stopped my tirade. “Of course not, Randy. May I still call you Randy? Please believe me when I tell you that I am perfectly realistic about my expectations, as fantastic as they might be. But I have no intention of you ‘hunting down’ a woman who will suit my needs. I’m sure you will have a literal parade of women streaming through your office in the weeks and months to come. I will ensure the word gets out that you are a wonderful psychiatrist ... and especially suited for the emotional needs of women. You will be VERY highly recommended. And I will be patient ... for awhile, at least, while you find me a good candidate. After all, I will be very specific in my requirements, both physical and emotional.”

“Physical?” I blurted. “What do you intend to do? Put out the word that I only see young supermodels?”

“Those are the only two things I do NOT care about,” he countered, smiling even more broadly. “She does NOT have to be young ... and she does not have to be beautiful. I would certainly not complain if she was; but those will not be among your requirements in choosing a proper candidate.”

I shook my head, both to clear it, and to let him know that I had no intention of being a part of this warped game. But before I could voice that, he held up his hands and started counting, using his right forefinger to touch those on his left.

“I require a virgin.” He began by touching an index finger. “And, of course, one that is healthy enough to bear me children.” He had touched a second finger with the ‘healthy’ requirement; and he kept checking off the other fingers in order. “Obedient ... that’s where your process comes in. Deeply submissive. Very much in love with me ... even before she meets me.” He had run out of fingers, so he let both hands fall to his lap. “Oh ... one more thing. I would really enjoy it if she was producing milk. The thought of that has always turned me on.”

I gawked, open mouthed, then found the wherewithal to issue a single barked laugh. “A mind-controlled lactating virgin?”

“It IS possible,” he countered confidently. “Forced lactation, I mean. I’ve read about it. And you ARE a medical doctor.”

And all of a sudden, a mental image sprang into my head. I continued to stare at him, but I let my eyes lose their focus as I thought back to the day before ... and I saw her. She had been a bystander ... an insignificant character in the flow of my life. But now, I dredged up her image again ... and I considered. And THAT was the moment! That was the instant my life changed.

HE had seen it ... I’m certain of that. He had drawn a slight breath to make further comment, but he very wisely kept silent instead, that constant smile changing subtly to let me KNOW that he knew. “You son of a bitch!” I hissed. “You goddamned son of a bitch!” But he said nothing, confident in my transformation. Because, I had CONSIDERED it, you see. And what real difference is there, ethically speaking? Once you seriously consider an action, the action itself is just something that follows. I suddenly realized that I COULD do what he was asking; and more to the point, I realized HOW I would do it. I glanced up at the clock. How long had I been sitting there, contemplating? How many seconds ... how many minutes ... had passed since I had allowed myself to be turned into a monster?

Finally, he spoke. “You already have a girl in mind, don’t you?” he asked excitedly.

I glowered at him. “How would I know?” I barked. I thought again. “Probably not. I can’t look at a woman and tell if she’s a virgin!” He was silent again, and I once more lapsed into thought. “I want fifty thousand dollars up front,” I stated flatly.

“Done.” The quickness of his response infuriated me.

“I need to offer her money” I continued gruffly. “Another fifty thou, let’s say. You would probably never have to pay her. But if something happens ... if I fail, you would have to do so, and I would start over with someone else. You could deduct my failures from the final payment.”

“Agreed.”

“Give me six months to find a candidate ... just in case this girl doesn’t pan out,” I continued, as if I hadn’t cared about his last word, “plus three months work to ... provide the ... um ... emotional and physical characteristics. If I haven’t found a likely girl within six months, you have the right to renegotiate.” I glanced at him with authority, and he nodded his consent. “And one last thing,” I continued. “In payment, I want this building.”

At last I had flustered him. “You want ... what?”

I raised my hands to indicate our surroundings. “This building. I want you to buy it and give it to me ... in addition to the fifty thou.”

“Uh ... the entire building?”

Finally, I was the one smiling. “You would be getting a bargain. The top two floors have been condemned. My office, and my apartment in the back, are the only habitable spaces. It’s scheduled for destruction next year. The consortium that owns it wants four million for the lot, but the demolition costs are going to be a close to a mil, all by themselves. You should be able to talk them down below three mil for it, as is, with very little effort. Maybe even two.”

He narrowed his eyes, but nodded slowly. “Why do you want a condemned building?” he asked.

But I was already standing, my right hand extended toward him. “We have a deal?” I asked, my jaw firm. From his expression, I was obviously presenting the countenance of someone who was self-assured but not enjoying the transaction. Gravely, he stood and we shook.

He reached into an inner suit pocket and pulled out a checkbook, then used my desk as he wrote out a check for fifty thousand dollars. He placed a business card on top of it. “My private cell phone number and email address are on the back,” he said quietly. “Please keep me appraised of your progress.” And he turned on his heel and walked out.

I sat back down and stared at the check and calling card. I felt amazingly calm and aware. So, I mused, this is what a sociopath feels like. I shrugged. Pulling out my cell phone, I searched in the contact list until I located the number I wanted. I pressed it without preparing what I was going to say. Somehow, I knew I could field the conversation, no matter which direction it might go. I felt more confident than I ever have in my life.

“Hello?” The woman’s voice was surrounded by mild static. I realized she was speaking through her car’s speaker system as she was driving.

“Doctor Feinburough? It’s Randy Herringwick. I tried to talk to you yesterday in that apartment on the south side, but you were too busy. You had called me in to consult with your Hospice patient. I was too late, as it turned out.”

She sounded impatient. “Ah. The psychiatrist. Yes. You were on time, doctor. I regret the patient had already passed. There wasn’t time to call you and cancel. If you’ll just call our secretary, we’ll make sure you are paid promptly. One hour at the Medicare rate. Do you need the number?”

I grinned. “You misunderstand, doctor. I have no intention of billing you for a patient who had already died. I would never do that.”

There was a long pause. “I’m sorry ... why are you calling?”

“There was a young woman there. Slender. Brown hair. Looked a little like a deer caught in the headlights. I assume it was the patient’s daughter.” I let the statement hang.

“Yes. She’s a niece, actually. Primary caregiver. I ... um ... can’t remember her name at the moment, sorry. The caseworker would know. Um ... why do you ask?”

“I sensed she needed help. The death obviously hit her pretty hard. I wanted to offer her my assistance.”

“I realize you are just setting up your practice, doctor,” she replied. She sounded condescending. “That’s why we chose you to begin with. We thought you might need the business. But believe me, you’re barking up the wrong tree. The girl is flat broke. There’s no money there. In fact, I think they’re about to evict her. Whatever estate there is, it’s obviously in arrears.”

Thankfully, she couldn’t see my smile. She was playing right into my hands. “Again, you misunderstand, doctor. I really don’t need the business ... or the money. I have a pretty good sense of psychological need. And believe me, this girl is in pain. I only want to help her.” I paused again, setting the hook. “Or ... if you would like to take it upon yourself to steer her toward proper counseling, I could refer several other psychiatrists that might be able to see her instead.”

“No! I mean ... forgive me, doctor. I wasn’t insinuating...”

“Please, doctor, call me Randy,” I purred.

“Jackie,” she countered. “And please, Randy, feel free to help her, if you can. I ... um ... THINK that she’s still living at the same address. You could call ... or drop by and talk to her. And yes, she obviously IS in emotional pain. You see, the patient died following a freak accident. The girl was not to blame in any way; but you know how caregivers are.”

“I thought the woman died of the Big Three,” I said, genuinely confused. The small apartment, when I visited, had smelled horrible ... like the inside of a smoldering ashtray. I’d been told that I was treating a patient in the final stages of lung cancer, emphysema and COPD.

“Somehow, the idiot had gotten hold of a cigarette and a lighter,” Jackie said solemnly. “ The police believe she found a butt under the cushions of a couch. I had just bumped her level of oxygen flow that morning to max. And, she was pretty out of it, with all the morphine we were giving her, so it probably never even dawned on her to turn off the oxygen before she lit up. The girl was out of the apartment, getting groceries. She came home just after the fire department responded. Thank God the fire was short-lived and confined to part of the couch in the den. The patient scorched her lungs; and in her weakened state from the disease, she probably died within seconds. We were lucky in a sense, though. I mean ... the whole building could have gone up!”

“Christ,” I muttered honestly. “No wonder the girl looked that way. I’ll help her if I can.”

“Thank you, Randy.” Her voice had taken on a slightly sultry tone. “I look forward to working with you in the future. Maybe we could get to know each other better.”

“Yes. I look forward to that, too, Jackie. Good bye.”

And I never saw or spoke to the good Doctor Jackie again.

CASE FILES - PERSONAL NOTES - PATIENT 20 - DAY 1

“Hello,” I said amiably. “I am...”

“Yes. I know why you’ve come.” It was the same girl, no doubt about it. But two days ago, I had seen her across a room full of the chaos of death. There had been paramedics, a gurney with a full body bag strapped atop it, and the good Dr. Jackie busy signing forms. This mousy waif had retreated to a corner, where she was busy attempting to blend into the walls ... trying to get away from the overdose of stark reality before her. Even now, she was attempting to escape, for she had not met my warm gaze, and she refused to look up at me, even as she was speaking. “I ... I don’t suppose there is any way you can put this off for just one more day, is there?”

“Put it off?” I asked. I was still trying to make her look up so I could see her eyes.

Instead, she sighed heavily. “No. Of course not. Can you give me just a moment? I only have one suitcase. It’s in the bedroom. May I get it, please?” I reached out and laid a hand on her left shoulder. She gasped loudly, and pulled away very slightly, though my hand was still making contact. Finally, she looked up into my face, but tears sprang to her eyes so quickly that I couldn’t really study those windows to her soul. “Please?!” she sobbed. “Just one suitcase?”